Mr Monk's Assistant Gets a Valentine
by SilentlyRead
Summary: Alas your mystery is postponed for you have a job to do.


_**Mr. Monk's Assistant Gets a Valentine **_

**A/N:** I created this one-shot for Tubealicious911's Valentine's Day Challenge, but please feel free to leave comments.  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Monk_ or any of it's characters. Rather the show is the sole product of Andy Breckman and his writers. I merely borrowed the characters from _Monk_ for my own creative purposes.

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On this cool crisp February morning, a figure approaches the rustic mailbox and then suddenly vanishes with the wind; no traces left behind except for a lone letter.

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You slowly inch up the steps to your apartment; you glance to your right and grab your mail out of the box. The door creaks, and in you go. As you reach the fireplace, an envelope catches your attention. It is perfectly crisp with no addresses and no postage. Your hands glide over the raised type that spells your name—Natalie Teeger. In awe, you shiver as you struggle with the seal, finally breaking. Contents revealed—a poem:

_Roses are Red,_

_Violets are Blue,_

_My heart is Eager,_

_For Natalie Teeger._

_Your Secret Valentine._

A quick glance at the calendar indeed confirms Saint Valentines Day is only three days away. Again your hands follow the upraised surface left by the text, as you wonder who committed such a mysterious gesture. After a third glance, a smile cracks, which proceeds into slight laughter. It cannot be helped, not with such a line as: _My heart is Eager, For Natalie Teeger_. Suddenly a ring pierces through your reverie—and alas your mystery is postponed for you have a job to do.

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By Mr. Monk's side, you enter. Another room, another tragic death. This time it's a girl only a few years older than your Julie. This crime is quite a dilemma, for Captain Stottlemeyer and Lieutenant Disher are puzzled—how did she die?

You watch as Mr. Monk studies the room. He has the expression of utmost bewilderment as his eyes flit around the room. First he focuses on the girl—she is slumped over her desk, pen firmly grasped in her right hand. As he looks at the journal, you step forward and see what has been written,_ I regret what I have done, please forgive me._ Your first thought—suicide, but then Mr. Monk speaks.

"Captain I think this girl was murdered." You watch as all eyes shift to the nervous man as he continues, "The pen is in her right hand, but in those photos," he points to the three images on the desk, "she is writing with her left hand."

You wonder how Mr. Monk notices such tiny details—ones you would have never observed. You let your eyes comb through all the members enclosed in this tiny room.

The Captain clears his voice in hopes of receiving the attention of his lieutenant. Ah, but he fails, for Randy Disher would rather be enamored by the computer. You stride over with full intentions to tease him. You slightly nudge him. He shifts his gaze to meet your eyes, you hold it for a minute then you both look away.

Finally he speaks, "I found a video podcast, the victim filmed last night."

You cannot help but be intrigued; rarely does one speak from beyond the grave. Then Mr. Monk and the Captain are called over as you watch her last hours alive. To you, she seems so full of vitality, and filled with excitement while she chatters (or rather, chattered) about her trip in Paris. You watch her laugh. Then it's over, just like her life.

The coroner takes her body away, the autopsy report filed, the evidence gathered (such as the half-full glass of liquor), and the room closed off. You listen as the Captain asks for you to bring Mr. Monk in to the office tomorrow.

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After Mr. Monk is dropped off, you close your eyes and sigh—for another busy day is done. First you hug your daughter, so glad she's alive—you cannot but help it after days like this. You go into the kitchen, put the kettle on the stove while you wait for that familiar whistle. With a cup of tea, you sit down as you pull out your poem from earlier.

Your first thought—it's not Mr. Monk. For, as you see, the letter 'e' is slightly lower than the rest. No, Mr. Monk would never have anything less than perfect. No, Mr. Monk will never want anyone less than Trudy.

You realize the time is late, and another full day comes tomorrow, so you slowly dredge yourself to bed, thinking you have two more days to figure it out. You listen to the rain, as you drift into sleep.

Your alarm beeps, signaling it's time to get up. Julie hollers for you to hurry up, you scramble out the door to take her to school. As you glance at your car clock, you decide there is enough time to grab coffee and a chocolate scone, before picking up Mr. Monk.

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Again the same figure approaches yesterday's steps and leaves without a trace, but a flower on the door.

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The car door is closed, and up the steps you go; there you spot a single flower. A sunflower. Not roses, not daisies, not violets nor carnations, but a sunflower—your favorite. The flower is carefully taken in and set in a vase, as you untie the ribbon that holds a card—_To Natalie Teeger_. A soft smile that approached your lips yesterday reappears. The clock ticks and it's time to go, the mystery remains for now—for you have a job to do.

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After spending ten minutes pulling into the parking lot—because your parking had to pass Mr. Monk's standards—you get out of the car. You both enter the police station, just as busy as ever. You spot Disher outside the interrogation room, so to the window you and Mr. Monk go. You stand next to Randy, almost whispering, "What's happening with the with case?"

He leans in, and says, "The roommate has a solid alibi for the night of the murder. She was working as a paige over at the Park Branch library over on Page Street."

You watch as he chuckles which elicits a laugh from you—for paige and page is comical. You cannot help but notice that his eyes light up and crinkle with his laugh—in a way it enthralls you.

You both hear Mr. Monk clear his throat, so Randy continues, "After that she worked at a nursery home over on umm…" He flips opens his notebook finds the answer and continues, "on Market. Well anyway, the roommate said that the victim's ex-boyfriend visited twice last week pleading to get back together. So now he is in there with the Captain."

You peer through the glass, and watch as boy sweats in the presence of the Captain. The boy does not know how to save himself, for all he did was study, but alas, that's no alibi. Stottlemeyer leaves the interrogation room, signaling for an officer to guard the boy. Then suddenly the victim's sister enters the room shrieking.

"Where's my sister? Where is she? Is she in trouble? I got a call to come about my sister? Does she have a lawyer?"

You watch as the Captain walks to the girl where he breaks the news. The girl drops her purse, out rolls a bottle of diazepam—she picks up her fallen contents. To your right Mr. Monk flinches, and quickly he asks Randy, "Do you still have that video the girl made?"

Randy nods, so you and Mr. Monk follow him into the room to watch the tape. Suddenly Mr. Monk pauses it and points to the girl's sweater.

"Do you see that piece of jewelry? The broach?" Randy and you both nod so Mr. Monk continues, "Now look at the sister."

You focus on the girl and there you see that very broach. Suddenly the lieutenant heads toward Captain Stottlemeyer, so you and Mr. Monk follow in tow.

Disher tells the Captain, "Monk solved the case." The Captain glances over expectantly, as Mr. Monk reveals the crime.

"Here's what happened. After your mother passed—that broach," he said while, pointing to the victim's sister's chest. "Was inherited by your sister, but you wanted it—enough to kill. That bottle you dropped was a prescription to diazepam, and you knew that mixed with alcohol was a lethal mix. So you slipped an overdose of pills into a glass of vodka you poured for her. You panicked after you killed her, so you tried to make it look like a suicide, but you being right handed naturally put the pen in your sister's right hand—even though she was left handed. But before you left the scene you took that broach with you."

The girl blurted out, "But our mother promised it to me!"

You are stunned at the outburst; the idea of killing a sister—your only living relative—for a petty object seems so puzzling. No object should ever be worth more than blood, and you think back to how grateful you are to have your daughter Julie—she fills you with pride.

You watch the officers go into swift action, handcuffing the sister and reciting the Miranda Rights—which you know so well. There is nothing left for you and Mr. Monk, another murder solved. As you glance around the room before you leave, you notice one sole yellow petal on a desk—another mystery solved.

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At home you sit at the table, tapping your pen incessantly as you mull over what to write. Ideas flit here and there, but words have never come so slowly.

_Roses are Red_

No, that will not do, for you do not want to be a copycat. A thought comes to mind, why not suggest a place to meet on Valentines Day. A date.

_Shall we meet for Valentines?_

No, you want something straight forward, but cute and clever, because it's only fitting. As you grab for another sheet, inspiration hits.

_Three-Quarters to Nine,_

_Meet me at Pier 39._

You look at what you wrote and you're satisfied, but one little idea comes to mind. You wish to clarify the time, before signing it.

_(8:15)_

_Natalie_

Perfect. You slip the note into a lone envelope as you sprawl out his name. A few minutes go by, before you muster the courage to stand up. In one swift motion you put on your jacket as you grab the letter. You use the night as your disguise as you slip into the dark. You drive to the familiar apartment, slowly placing the note in his mail slot, and then you quickly leave.

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Valentine's Day has arrived. You cannot help but feel your heart twitter as your stomach flutters. A flushed face, you have, for you are filled with excitement for the night. You pick your outfit carefully—a nice flowery dress, paired with a cashmere sweater and diamond studded earrings. You stare at your reflection and you're pleased.

As you exit the door you kiss your daughter goodbye, while promising to return later. You climb into your car and sit at the wheel. One deep breath. Second deep breath. With the third deep breath, you put your car into gear and head toward your destination.

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Standing at the entrance you see Randy in a suit with his boyish smile. Your heart beats faster as you walk in his direction. You both exchange glances and beaming smiles. After a minute of silence he asks, "How did you figure it out?"

You know no answer would be more fitting than this: "Here's what happened…"


End file.
